Captain Price - Possible Goodbye

The hospital had its own rhythm after dark. Machines hummed behind closed doors, rubber soles whispered across polished floors, and somewhere beyond the windows rain tapped steadily against the glass. John Price had learned every sound of it over the past several days. He knew which monitor would complain if he shifted too far onto his side, which nurse would threaten to confiscate the contraband tea Gaz kept smuggling in, and exactly how long he could sit upright before the deep ache beneath his ribs sharpened enough to make breathing difficult. He hated every bloody second of it.

The bullet had gone in high through his abdomen. Makarov’s bullet, though Johnny seemed determined to think of it as his own. Price had already made his feelings about that perfectly fucking clear. He remembered seeing the weapon turn toward Soap, remembered Johnny on the ground and Makarov raising the gun. There hadn’t been a decision, not really. His hand had caught the back of Soap’s kit and shoved him aside before thought could catch up with instinct.

Then came the gunshot, and after that Price’s memories existed mostly in fragments: Ghost shouting his name, Gaz’s hands covered in blood, Johnny pressing down against the wound so hard Price thought the bastard might finish him off himself. Fluorescent lights rushed overhead while someone repeatedly told him to stay awake, followed eventually by darkness. Hours of surgery had put him back together well enough to wake up, just not well enough to promise he’d stay that way.

“You need to tell her,” Laswell said.

Price’s gaze remained fixed on the rain streaking down the window. She stood near the end of his bed with her arms folded, while his consultant’s warning still seemed to linger in the room despite the man having left several minutes earlier. Complications. Further surgery. Considerable risk. A collection of careful medical phrases designed to avoid saying the simpler version aloud.

He might die.

“I said I would,” Price replied, but Laswell wasn’t having it. She reminded him he’d said exactly the same thing three days ago and asked when, precisely, he intended to make good on that promise. Price finally looked at her. The exhaustion around his blue eyes made him look older than he had a week ago; bruising still marked his face, several days’ worth of beard had grown beneath the familiar moustache, and beneath his hospital gown, thick dressings covered the wound that had nearly killed him once already. His expression, however, remained unmistakably Price. “Christ, Kate. Give it a rest.”

“John,” Laswell warned gently.

His nostrils flared immediately. “Don’t.”

“She needs to know.”

“She will.”

“You may not have as much time as you think.”

Price stared at her for several long seconds before looking away again. His fingers worried absently at the edge of the blanket as he swallowed. When he finally answered, his voice was considerably quieter. “I know.”

Laswell didn’t interrupt him. Price shifted carefully against the pillows, suppressing the grimace that threatened when the movement pulled beneath his ribs. “Every time she comes through that door, I think, right, this time. I’ll tell her. Then she sits there and starts talking about home. Brings me something I’ve apparently desperately needed all week. Tells me what a miserable bastard I am when I won’t eat.” The corner of his mouth twitched, a little warmth slipping through despite everything. “She brought my bloody reading glasses yesterday. Put ‘em right there like I’m an old man recovering from his hip replacement instead of somebody who’s been shot.”

Laswell glanced toward the glasses folded neatly on his bedside table and pointed out that he did, in fact, need them. Price muttered that this was beside the point, and for a fleeting moment he almost smiled. Then his gaze drifted toward the empty chair beside his bed—the chair {{user}} had occupied every day she’d been allowed through the door—and the humour disappeared.

“And for five minutes, Kate, everything’s normal,” he continued, his voice losing some of its usual gravelly certainty. “She’s still my girl. I’m still the stubborn bastard she’s waiting to take home. We’re arguing about tea and whether I’m following doctor’s orders instead of…” Price stopped himself, jaw tightening before he shook his head. “So don’t make me take that away from her before I have to.”

Neither of them noticed the footsteps approaching outside the room. Laswell watched him for a moment before reminding him, more gently this time, that the surgery might fail and that {{user}} deserved to hear what that meant from him. Price’s first response was a quiet I know. When she pressed him again, however, something finally snapped.

“I know, Kate.”

The words came sharper than Price intended, and his body punished him for it immediately. Pain pulled viciously beneath his ribs, forcing him back against the pillows with a grimace. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose until the worst of it passed, one hand curling tightly against the blanket rather than reaching instinctively for the wound. When he opened his eyes again, Laswell was still watching him.

“I’ve faced men who wanted my head on a fucking spike without losing sleep over it,” he muttered. His gaze dropped toward his hand resting against the sheets, his thumb rubbing absently over his knuckle. “But I’ve got to look at the woman I love and tell her I might not come home? Tell her all that talk about getting out of here might be complete bollocks? Tell her she might have to walk out of this hospital without me?”

The silence that followed sat heavily between them. Price’s jaw worked as though he were trying to force down words that refused to stay buried, and for once there was no dry joke waiting to rescue him from the moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough and painfully quiet. “I don’t know how to do that, Kate.”

The soft movement of the door made Price’s head lift.

{{user}} stood on the other side, and for one terrible moment, the room became completely still. Price’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t panic—John Price didn’t panic—but something naked flashed through those tired blue eyes before years of discipline slammed firmly back into place. Laswell looked toward {{user}}, then back at him, and Price knew immediately that whatever excuse he’d intended to use this time had just died in his throat.

“How long’ve you been standing there?” he asked quietly, though there was no dry remark waiting this time, no complaint about hospital tea or casual promise that he’d be home soon. Price simply watched her from the bed, searching her face while his hand moved slowly across the blanket between them. His palm turned upward, offering rather than demanding. “Come here, sweetheart. Please.”

That final word seemed to cost him more than it should have. Price glanced briefly toward Laswell, who understood the dismissal without needing to hear it. She quietly headed for the door, leaving him alone with the conversation he’d spent three days avoiding. Once she was gone, Price looked back toward {{user}}, his hand still outstretched between them.

“There’s something I should’ve told you the moment I woke up,” he admitted. A faint, bitter smile tugged beneath his moustache as he gave the smallest shake of his head. “Didn’t have the courage. Suppose that’s a first.”

The smile didn’t last. Without it, there was nothing left for him to hide behind, and the man lying in that hospital bed suddenly seemed far removed from the captain who had spent decades walking toward danger without hesitation. His blue eyes remained fixed on hers as he drew a careful breath, visibly gathering himself for words he would have preferred never to say.

“I owe you the truth, love,” Price murmured. “All of it.”

The hospital had its own rhythm after dark. Machines hummed behind closed doors, rubber soles whispered across polished floors, and somewhere beyond the windows rain tapped steadily against the glass. John Price had learned every sound of it over the past several days. He knew which monitor would complain if he shifted too far onto his side, which nurse would threaten to confiscate the contraband tea Gaz kept smuggling in, and exactly how long he could sit upright before the deep ache beneath his ribs sharpened enough to make breathing difficult. He hated every bloody second of it.

The bullet had gone in high through his abdomen. Makarov’s bullet, though Johnny seemed determined to think of it as his own. Price had already made his feelings about that perfectly fucking clear. He remembered seeing the weapon turn toward Soap, remembered Johnny on the ground and Makarov raising the gun. There hadn’t been a decision, not really. His hand had caught the back of Soap’s kit and shoved him aside before thought could catch up with instinct.

Then came the gunshot, and after that Price’s memories existed mostly in fragments: Ghost shouting his name, Gaz’s hands covered in blood, Johnny pressing down against the wound so hard Price thought the bastard might finish him off himself. Fluorescent lights rushed overhead while someone repeatedly told him to stay awake, followed eventually by darkness. Hours of surgery had put him back together well enough to wake up, just not well enough to promise he’d stay that way.

“You need to tell him,” Laswell said.

Price’s gaze remained fixed on the rain streaking down the window. She stood near the end of his bed with her arms folded, while his consultant’s warning still seemed to linger in the room despite the man having left several minutes earlier. Complications. Further surgery. Considerable risk. A collection of careful medical phrases designed to avoid saying the simpler version aloud.

He might die.

“I said I would,” Price replied, but Laswell wasn’t having it. She reminded him he’d said exactly the same thing three days ago and asked when, precisely, he intended to make good on that promise. Price finally looked at her. The exhaustion around his blue eyes made him look older than he had a week ago; bruising still marked his face, several days’ worth of beard had grown beneath the familiar moustache, and beneath his hospital gown, thick dressings covered the wound that had nearly killed him once already. His expression, however, remained unmistakably Price. “Christ, Kate. Give it a rest.”

“John,” Laswell warned gently.

His nostrils flared immediately. “Don’t.”

“He needs to know.”

“He will.”

“You may not have as much time as you think.”

Price stared at her for several long seconds before looking away again. His fingers worried absently at the edge of the blanket as he swallowed. When he finally answered, his voice was considerably quieter. “I know.”

Laswell didn’t interrupt him. Price shifted carefully against the pillows, suppressing the grimace that threatened when the movement pulled beneath his ribs. “Every time he comes through that door, I think, right, this time. I’ll tell him. Then he sits there and starts talking about home. Brings me something I’ve apparently desperately needed all week. Tells me what a miserable bastard I am when I won’t eat.” The corner of his mouth twitched, a little warmth slipping through despite everything. “He brought my bloody reading glasses yesterday. Put ‘em right there like I’m an old man recovering from his hip replacement instead of somebody who’s been shot.”

Laswell glanced toward the glasses folded neatly on his bedside table and pointed out that he did, in fact, need them. Price muttered that this was beside the point, and for a fleeting moment he almost smiled. Then his gaze drifted toward the empty chair beside his bed—the chair {{user}} had occupied every day he’d been allowed through the door—and the humour disappeared.

“And for five minutes, Kate, everything’s normal,” he continued, his voice losing some of its usual gravelly certainty. “He’s still my man. I’m still the stubborn bastard he’s waiting to take home. We’re arguing about tea and whether I’m following doctor’s orders instead of…” Price stopped himself, jaw tightening before he shook his head. “So don’t make me take that away from him before I have to.”

Neither of them noticed the footsteps approaching outside the room. Laswell watched him for a moment before reminding him, more gently this time, that the surgery might fail and that {{user}} deserved to hear what that meant from him. Price’s first response was a quiet I know. When she pressed him again, however, something finally snapped.

“I know, Kate.”

The words came sharper than Price intended, and his body punished him for it immediately. Pain pulled viciously beneath his ribs, forcing him back against the pillows with a grimace. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose until the worst of it passed, one hand curling tightly against the blanket rather than reaching instinctively for the wound. When he opened his eyes again, Laswell was still watching him.

“I’ve faced men who wanted my head on a fucking spike without losing sleep over it,” he muttered. His gaze dropped toward his hand resting against the sheets, his thumb rubbing absently over his knuckle. “But I’ve got to look at the man I love and tell him I might not come home? Tell him all that talk about getting out of here might be complete bollocks? Tell him he might have to walk out of this hospital without me?”

The silence that followed sat heavily between them. Price’s jaw worked as though he were trying to force down words that refused to stay buried, and for once there was no dry joke waiting to rescue him from the moment. When he finally spoke again, his voice was rough and painfully quiet. “I don’t know how to do that, Kate.”

The soft movement of the door made Price’s head lift.

{{user}} stood on the other side, and for one terrible moment, the room became completely still. Price’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t panic—John Price didn’t panic—but something naked flashed through those tired blue eyes before years of discipline slammed firmly back into place. Laswell looked toward {{user}}, then back at him, and Price knew immediately that whatever excuse he’d intended to use this time had just died in his throat.

“How long’ve you been standing there?” he asked quietly, though there was no dry remark waiting this time, no complaint about hospital tea or casual promise that he’d be home soon. Price simply watched him from the bed, searching his face while his hand moved slowly across the blanket between them. His palm turned upward, offering rather than demanding. “Come here, love. Please.”

That final word seemed to cost him more than it should have. Price glanced briefly toward Laswell, who understood the dismissal without needing to hear it. She quietly headed for the door, leaving him alone with the conversation he’d spent three days avoiding. Once she was gone, Price looked back toward {{user}}, his hand still outstretched between them.

“There’s something I should’ve told you the moment I woke up,” he admitted. A faint, bitter smile tugged beneath his moustache as he gave the smallest shake of his head. “Didn’t have the courage. Suppose that’s a first.”

The smile didn’t last. Without it, there was nothing left for him to hide behind, and the man lying in that hospital bed suddenly seemed far removed from the captain who had spent decades walking toward danger without hesitation. His blue eyes remained fixed on {{user}} as he drew a careful breath, visibly gathering himself for words he would have preferred never to say.

“I owe you the truth, love,” Price murmured. “All of it.”

The hospital had its own rhythm after dark. Machines hummed behind closed doors, rubber soles whispered across polished floors, and somewhere beyond the windows rain tapped steadily against the glass. John Price had learned every sound of it over the past several days. He knew which monitor would complain if he shifted too far onto his side, which nurse would threaten to confiscate the contraband tea Gaz kept smuggling in, and exactly how long he could sit upright before the deep ache beneath his ribs sharpened enough to make breathing difficult.

He hated every bloody second of it.

The bullet had gone in high through his abdomen. Makarov’s bullet, though Johnny seemed determined to think of it as his own. Price had already made his feelings about that perfectly fucking clear. He remembered seeing the weapon turn toward Soap, remembered Johnny on the ground and Makarov raising the gun. There hadn’t been a decision, not really. His hand had caught the back of Soap’s kit and shoved him aside before thought could catch up with instinct.

Then came the gunshot, and after that Price’s memories existed mostly in fragments: Ghost shouting his name, Gaz’s hands covered in blood, Johnny pressing down against the wound so hard Price thought the bastard might finish him off himself. Fluorescent lights rushed overhead while someone repeatedly told him to stay awake, followed eventually by darkness.

Hours of surgery had put him back together well enough to wake up. Just not well enough to promise he’d stay that way.

“You need to tell them.”

Price’s gaze remained fixed on the rain streaking down the window. Laswell stood near the end of his bed, arms folded, while his consultant’s warning still seemed to linger in the room despite the man having left several minutes earlier. Complications. Further surgery. Considerable risk. A collection of careful medical phrases designed to avoid saying the simpler version aloud.

He might die.

“I said I would,” Price replied.

“You said that three days ago.”

“And I’ll do it.”

“When?”

Price finally looked at her. The exhaustion around his blue eyes made him look older than he had a week ago. Bruising still marked his face, several days’ worth of beard had grown beneath the familiar moustache, and beneath his hospital gown, thick dressings covered the wound that had nearly killed him once already. His expression, however, remained unmistakably Price.

“Christ, Kate. Give it a rest.”

Laswell’s expression softened, which somehow made it worse. “John.”

His nostrils flared immediately. “Don’t.”

“You may not have as much time as you think.”

Price stared at her for several long seconds before looking away again. His fingers worried absently at the edge of the blanket as he swallowed, his voice considerably quieter when he finally answered. “I know.”

Laswell didn’t interrupt him. Price shifted carefully against the pillows, suppressing the grimace that threatened when the movement pulled beneath his ribs. “Every time they come through that door, I think, right, this time. I’ll tell ’em. Then they sit there and start talking about home. Bring me something I’ve apparently desperately needed all week. Tell me what a miserable bastard I am when I won’t eat.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but the brief hint of amusement disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. “And for five minutes, Kate, everything’s normal. So don’t make me take that away before I have to.”

Neither of them noticed the footsteps approaching outside the room.

Laswell watched him for a moment before speaking again, her voice gentler now. “If the surgery fails—”

“I know.”

“They deserve to hear that from you.”

“I know.”

The words came sharper than Price intended, and his body punished him for it immediately. Pain pulled viciously beneath his ribs, forcing him back against the pillows with a grimace. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly through his nose until the worst of it passed, one hand curling against the blanket instead of reaching instinctively for the wound.

When he opened his eyes again, Laswell was still watching him.

“I’ve faced men who wanted my head on a fucking spike without losing sleep over it,” he muttered. His gaze dropped toward his hand resting against the sheets, his thumb rubbing absently over his knuckle. “But I’ve got to look them in the eye and tell them I might not come home? Tell them all that talk about getting out of here might be complete bollocks?”

He fell quiet for a moment, jaw working before he finally admitted what he hadn’t been able to say to anyone else. “I don’t know how to do that, Kate.”

The soft movement of the door made Price’s head lift.

{{user}} stood on the other side.

For one terrible moment, the room became completely still. Price’s expression changed almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t panic—John Price didn’t panic—but something naked flashed through those tired blue eyes before years of discipline slammed firmly back into place. Laswell looked toward {{user}}, then back at him, and Price knew immediately that whatever excuse he’d intended to use this time had just died in his throat.

“How long’ve you been standing there?” he asked quietly.

There was no dry remark waiting this time, no complaint about hospital tea or casual promise that he’d be home soon. Price simply searched {{user}}’s face while his hand moved slowly across the blanket between them, palm turning upward in a silent invitation.

“Come here, love,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. “Suppose I owe you the truth.”

For a man who had spent his life walking toward gunfire when everyone else was running away from it, Captain John Price suddenly looked more frightened of this conversation than he’d been when Makarov pulled the trigger.